


In Too Deep (The 'Mole' Canon-Era AU Remix)

by Malu_3 (Grainne)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Era, Alternate Version of Camelot/Albion, Angst and Humor, Jealousy, Multi, Post-Uther, Secrets, Suspicions, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-04-06 09:49:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19060222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grainne/pseuds/Malu_3
Summary: She sees the way he looks at Gwen.Still.And while she cannot fault Sir Lancelot for his excellent taste, she hasn't survived this long by being overly trusting. He's hiding something, she can tell, and while the rest of Camelot seems content to lick his boots, she is determined to expose him. Expose his secrets, that is.





	In Too Deep (The 'Mole' Canon-Era AU Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elveatas (Ricecake)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ricecake/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Mole](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7782532) by [Elveatas (Ricecake)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ricecake/pseuds/Elveatas). 



> Thanks to the wonderful Remix mods, to Elveatas for participating in this fest (and putting so may delicious images in my head via your words!), to Merlin chat for your camaraderie, and to the Ds for all your help.

He arrives one spring, covered in filth and bruises, an ugly gash on his thigh. No horse. No armour or weapons save for his sword. No proof of his tale—youngest son of Lord Eldred, come to offer his services to Camelot's new co-regents, ambushed in the forest and robbed of all his belongings—save for the quiet dignity of his speech and undeniable chivalry.

Weak from blood loss and surely parched, he uses the first of the water they offer, not to slake his thirst, but to clean his hands and face. Then he bows and kisses their hands, addressing both her and Gwen as, "My lady," and Sir Leon as "Sire."

The gaffe endears him instantly, except perhaps to Arthur. But her brother is soon won over, easy for men who fight well and look up to him, and as Merlin is easy for men willing to die for Arthur, Lancelot of Northumbria is duly knighted and welcomed into Arthur's inner circle. 

And while Morgana can admit he scrubs up well, finds him both charming and useful, she hasn't survived this long—hasn't fought and schemed to keep Uther's old allies from straying towards Bayard, Cenred, and Morgause—by being overly trusting. 

He's hiding something, she can tell.

* * *

_She'd seen the way he'd looked at Gwen, that very first day. Seen the way Gwen had looked back, fascinated, then the worry in her eyes when he'd fainted dead away. And it would have been nothing if not more fuel for the rightness of her love, proof of the good in Gwen's heart, were it not for the way Morgana had seen her eyeing him later, stripped down on Gaius' cot, gaze straying to the limp meat between his thighs…were it not for the flush on her cheeks, the odd note in her voice as she'd offered to help bathe him._

* * *

Morgana hears Merlin coming down the corridor well before she sees him—she's not sure she's met anyone less stealthy, is convinced he'd be dead many times over if not for his magic—and snags his arm as he passes.

"Morgana! What're you—"

"Come," she says, tugging him towards the window seat. "You should see this."

Merlin kneels beside her and peers out the open casement. "Tch. Not _again_. I warned Arthur that if he kept showing off like that, the new recruits are apt to swoon."

"Not there." She grabs Merlin's chin, forcing his attention to the far side of the training ground. A dozen or so of the men are skirmishing with quarterstaves. A shirtless Lancelot is practically a blur in their midst, holding his own against two, then three attackers. 

"Ooh, I see. Very nice indeed. But…not your type, surely?"

Morgana pushes his face away with a noise of disgust.

"What?!"

"Do you not find it odd," she says, fixing him with a look, "that a man who can fight like that had such trouble with Hengist's men? They're common louts, undisciplined, not a decent sword amongst them."

His expression clouds over. "What…? Are you suggesting Sir Lancelot _let_ himself be robbed? That's—"

"How do we know he actually was robbed? We've only his word."

"His wounds were real enough," Merlin counters. "Surely you don't think he stabbed himself?"

She shrugs. "I think the so-called fifth son of Lord Eldred of Northumbria bears watching, is all."

"He nearly lost his leg!"

Morgana gets to her feet, takes her time smoothing down her skirts while Merlin glares. "Well I don't entirely trust him, whether on one leg or two. And neither should you, no matter how prettily he speaks or how ' _very nice_ ' he looks working himself into a lather."

Her words do not have the intended effect. Merlin goes a bit pink, to be sure, but he holds her gaze as he stands, eyes narrowing.

"Hang on. Is this about what you saw in the armoury the other day?"

"What?" Morgana draws herself up to her full height. In these shoes, she can just about pretend she's taller. "Don't be ridiculous." 

"Because I assure you, it was all perfectly innocent. He's still getting used to his new armour, some trouble with thigh chafing, I believe, and you know Gwen, always happy to lend a hand…with adjusting his cuisses, that is, not his…um, she would never—" Merlin breaks off, wincing. He scrubs a hand over his face, muttering something to himself.

"Point being," he continues, "she's sworn herself to you. And whatever his parentage, whatever his true feelings, he's an honourable man. He'd never seek to come between you."

 _Then tell him to avert his eyes when she is near,_ she longs to say. _Better yet, burn out his eyes and slit his tongue. Drape him in sackcloth. Rub him down with dung. And geld him for good measure._

Instead, she gives Merlin her best—and Arthur assures her, most terrifying—smile and beckons him to lean in. When he does, slightly, she takes hold of his neckerchief and tugs him closer.

"I don't care about Lancelot's feelings," she says as pleasantly as she can manage. "I care that I've still no word from the men I sent north to verify his claim. I care that Geoffrey thinks someone's been sneaking about in the archives. I _care_ that our enemies have grown increasingly bold of late, always, by some strange chance, in places that the Camelot patrol is _absent_. You understand?"

She hears Merlin swallow, feels the way he strains in her grip in order to nod.

"Good." She releases him and steps around him, out into the corridor proper. "Now shoo. Go moon over Arthur, mop his brow. His ego's clearly suffering in your absence."

* * *

_She had seen…_ sees _the way he looks at Gwen, still. Forgiven at first because it was done in ignorance—and what kind of hypocrite would she be to judge a man for good taste?—and then because she could afford to, because he'd been wounded and pitiful and she'd assumed, if he even survived, he wouldn't stay where he had no purpose._

_Clearly, though, she'd underestimated him, because he's still here, fit and whole again, hanging stars in everyone's eyes without half trying. He's still looking, can't seem to help himself, and the worst part is that Gwen… She looks back. Still. She smiles and, worse yet, she watches him when she thinks no one is looking, the expression on her face all too familiar._

* * *

"I wonder," Morgana murmurs, lifting her head. Gwen blinks down at her, face slack with pleasure.

"Hm?" 

"If I could find the proper words to describe it to her, might Cook bake me a tart that tastes exactly like your—"

"Morgana!"

She doesn't get her hands out from beneath Gwen in time to intercept the cushion, but there's not much force behind it. It glances off her head, dislodging the hair she'd tucked behind her ear. 

"What? Just last week you asked me, remember? For the Lughnasadh feast, you wanted to know which was my favourite."

"Type of _pie_ , you fiend." Gwen reaches down and smoothes the hair off Morgana's face. She's smiling now, with her mouth as well as her eyes; Morgana loves the way it scrunches her nose, as if any moment she might burst out laughing.

"Pie, tart, cake…" She presses a kiss to Gwen's curls, just above the slick little nub where she's most sensitive. "Answer's still the same."

"You're incorrigible." 

"And you're very welcome." 

Morgana disentangles herself and shifts up the bed, settling on her back beside Gwen. The room is warm, but not uncomfortably so, and she's drowsy. She's just closed her eyes when she feels Gwen shift, turning on her side. Without opening her eyes, she lifts her arm and gathers her in, nuzzling the top of her head. Her thoughts are fraying, her limbs gone heavy when she realises that Gwen's _aren't_. She's holding herself perfectly still, not giving Morgana the full of her weight.

"Something is troubling you." 

"It'll keep," Gwen whispers.

"Nonsense." Morgana opens her eyes, gives Gwen a gentle squeeze. "Out with it, or I shan't be able to sleep."

"Very well. It's just, at the negotiations today, the wording Olaf and Rodor are insisting on with regard to succession by 'natural heir'…"

Morgana sighs. She's thoroughly over kings—nay, men in general—and their obsession with their seed. If they're not scheming to plant it in one hole or another, they're fretting over any perceived sleight to its relevance. "It is worrisome, but we'll find a way round it."

"We'd better. Arthur and Merlin certainly aren't up to it."

"No." Despite herself, Morgana grins. "Though not for lack of effort, from what I hear."

Gwen snorts softly. "They are quite the pair, but..." She tilts her face up. "Don't you ever think perhaps Arthur should have wed Mithian, or even Vivian?"

Morgana feels a chill down her spine, and barely suppresses a shudder.

"Merlin would understand," Gwen continues, "better than anyone. He and that poor dragon are always on about great destinies requiring sacrifice, but truth be told I doubt he'd—"

"Would you honestly wish that on a woman?" Morgana cuts in. "To be used as a brood mare, tied to a man who loves another?"

"What? No, you misunderstand. Not like—" Gwen pulls away and pushes up onto an elbow. She's frowning something fierce, but when their eyes meet, her expression softens. She huffs, nudging Morgana's shoulder. "Come now, my love. You know Arthur has a generous heart, as does Merlin. I only meant, imagine if there were real pleasure to be had, by all…or at least honest affection. And to know one's children would always be cherished, would be protected and well fed and might one day rule over all Albion? Most women I know settle for far less."

Morgana shrugs. "I suppose," she says, when what she's really thinking is, _Oh. Oh, I see._ She should leave it alone, should settle Gwen back under her arm and insist on sleep, but… "Would _you_?" she asks, because she's never been good at leaving things alone.

Gwen blinks. Then, with a smile, she ducks her head, kissing Morgana's breast. "What need have I to settle," she murmurs, "when I already have my heart's desire?" 

And Morgana bites her tongue, lets Gwen distract her for a while, but not before vowing to order up fish and eel pies for the Lughnasadh feast and idly hoping that Lancelot chokes on them.

* * *

_She knows it's not a true answer, doubts very much that Gwen's heart has anything to do with the way her body turns towards Lancelot whenever he enters a room, the way her eyes spark and flit to his hands, his mouth, his groin. But she could cope with it all, could pass it all off as natural curiosity and a harmless flirtation—Gwen is blameless, surely, has never once given Morgana cause to doubt her—save for the guilt of knowing that he can give her what she cannot._

* * *

Morgana keeps well back from the antics at the riverbank, waits until Merlin then, inevitably, Arthur are drawn into the melee before pouring a fresh cup of mead and beckoning Leon to join her and Gwen in the shade. 

"Come, Sir Leon, refresh yourself." Once he is seated, she presses the cup into his hands, waving off his thanks. "No need for formalities in this heat."

She waits until he's had a swallow or two, feigning interest in watching the men. What had begun as an organised game of forcing the gates has devolved into a series of smaller skirmishes, men grappling in the shallows or pelting one another with water and mud. Lancelot, in a fit of misplaced gallantry, has inserted himself between Arthur—ruthless, even at horseplay—and Merlin—a horrible cheat with his magic—and is getting the worst of it for his troubles. He's soaked through, his hair and fine linen shirt caked with river muck. 

_Serves him right,_ Morgana thinks, then glances towards Leon. "Did Arthur send Sir Lancelot on some errand last night?"

Leon shakes his head. "Not that I know of."

"Perhaps he's taken a lover in the lower town then."

Gwen looks up from her embroidery, clearly startled by the line of questioning. Leon's much harder to read, frowning into his cup. 

"I very much doubt it," he says at last.

"Even if he has, what business is it of yours?" Gwen adds. Her tone is light, teasing, but she's watching Morgana closely.

"Sir Lancelot did not ride out with us this morning, as you'll recall. In fact, he did not turn up until well after lunch. I merely wondered where he'd been."

"Ah." Leon takes another swallow. "As to that, sometimes a man likes to sleep free, my lady, out under the stars, especially if he's—"

"A pampered nobleman's son?" Morgana cuts in, unsheathing her dagger and leaning towards a nearby basket of apples. "A man who nearly lost his life traveling alone? 

Leon watches her warily as she stabs one, lifts it from the pile, then begins to carve it into bite-sized slivers. "Everyone's got their own way of coping," he says then, after downing what's left in his cup, looks over, meeting her eye. "And not all noble sons have it easy, my lady, just as not all royal daughters do."

"Leon—" Gwen begins, admonishing, but breaks off when Morgana begins to laugh.

"Fair point, Sir Leon," she concedes, offering him a slice of apple. "Nevertheless, I'd bid you keep an eye on him." She nods towards the riverbank, where Lancelot's now stripped down to just his hose, attempting to shake the water from his hair. "He's hiding something."

"I can't think where, my lady. That is to say, er…" Leon clears his throat and leans in. "At the moment I'd say he's hiding very little. It might be best to avert your eyes."

Morgana ignores Gwen's stifled laugh and shoots Leon a quelling look. "I was speaking of _secrets_ , Sir Leon."

"Ah," he says, and stuffs his mouth with apple.

* * *

_She can appreciate the male form as well as any, she'd wager, and she is no stranger to lust. But the two things have never gone together, never seemed a natural fit as they do for other women. She's never craved a cock to fill her, nor the scent and weight of a man to cover her. The smooth play of muscles along his back, the visible heft of his balls in the clinging hose—she looks on him as she might a horse or a hound. There is an exotic beauty to his face, she'll admit, but she's not sure whether that's down to attraction or jealousy._

* * *

Morgana clenches her fists in her lap, hidden beneath the table, to keep herself from betraying any sign of impatience. No one will look her in the eye. They all just sit there, fidgeting, sneaking glances at one another. It's driving her mad.

"Well?" she says when she can no longer stand the silence. It turns out the proof of Lancelot's treachery has been under their noses this many months, hidden away in a dusty volume of royal genealogy that had somehow been misshelved amongst granary reports. "What have you to say now?"

Arthur hands the volume back to Geoffrey with a sigh. He clears his throat, then glances at Merlin, who is suddenly engrossed in buffing his goblet on a shirtsleeve. He mutters something under his breath that makes Arthur grimace. 

"Yes, well," Arthur says, sitting up taller. "Though Sir Lancelot may not, in fact, be the fifth son of Lord Eldred—"

"Is certainly _not_ the fifth son of Lord Eldred," Morgana cuts in, "because no such person bloody exists!"

"Indeed. However—" Arthur holds his hands up to forestall further interruption. "—there is no denying that, since he arrived, he has proven himself a true knight, in both word and deed. Most of us here at this table owe him our lives. I therefore recommend a full pardon, in light of his exceptional bravery and service to Camelot."

There are nods, rumblings of "Hear! Hear!"

Morgana narrows her eyes at Arthur, notices the flush on his cheeks. Then, in an instant, she understands what's been going on.

"Pretty words, brother. They roll off your tongue so well… _too_ well."

"Morgana—"

"You already knew!" she cuts in. 

Arthur gives a curt nod. 

"He confessed to me and Gaius that first week," Merlin adds, still not willing to meet her eyes. "But he was feverish, wasn't sure he'd make it. He didn't want to die with that on his conscience."

"And Lancelot told me himself, once he had recovered," Arthur says, laying a hand on Merlin's shoulder. "But as I'd already made up my mind to amend the Code… Morgana, I saw no harm in it. You've said it yourself: We needed—need—good fighting men who weren't raised to fear magic."

"He's been invaluable with the recruits," Elyan says.

"He _lied_. To our faces, Arthur. We've no idea who he really is."

"He's the son of a boatwright, my lady," Gaius says mildly.

"And an herb woman," Merlin adds, fumbling the goblet back onto the table.

"Regardless," Arthur says, voice rising. "Would you really fault a man for attempting to skirt a law you, yourself, have deemed unjust? Yes, he was misinformed, but his intentions were honourable, his desire to serve genuine. He's apologised, shared what's truly in his heart, Morgana, and I believe—"

"His heart?" Morgana sneers. "Oh _do_ tell."

"Enough!" Arthur stands abruptly, chair scraping on stone. "Lancelot's tale is his own, and I'll not break his confidence. Nor will I sit here and listen to baseless accusations against one of my finest knights."

He turns and stalks towards the door, pausing only to holler for Merlin. Merlin jumps up and, shooting Morgana a look that she can't quite interpret—somewhere between a warning and an apology, she'd say—scurries after him.

Morgana gets to her feet once they've gone, pulling her cloak about her. She eyes what's left of their privy council, sorely missing Gwen's calming presence. She'd been called away to attend a birth in the lower town, leaving Morgana the lone woman in the room. She's never minded being such, but hates how her anger is automatically seen as irrational when Arthur is allowed to fly into a strop whenever he likes and is thought all the more kingly because of it. 

"I do not deny he is a fine knight, but Morgause has turned many a fine knight to her cause. You'd be wise to remember that, keep it in mind next time Sir Lancelot goes hunting alone, or saddles up for a late-night ride, or is seen—" Here she acknowledges Leon with a nod. "—wandering in areas of the castle where he has no business being when not on duty."

"That's not what—" Leon begins, frowning, but is cut off by Gaius.

"For heaven's sake! He's doing penance, my lady. He tends to the shrines in the forest, brings fresh game to the poor. Surely you have no objection to that?"

"Penance? For what crime?"

Gaius throws up his hands. "Who can say? But if he sleeps poorly because of it and chooses to spend that time helping others…"

"Poetry," Leon says, coughing into his fist.

"Pardon me?"

Leon clears his throat. "He also writes poetry, my lady. I've seen him at it, scribbling away late at night. He has a little book bound in green leather."

"And how do you know it is poetry he's writing?"

"A man gets a certain look on his face, my lady," Leon says gravely. "I've seen it enough times by now to know."

Morgana glances around, as surely he's speaking in jest, but the others aren't smiling. They look some combination of puzzled and discomfited. _This is it,_ she thinks. _Surely I have him now._

"Do you know where he keeps this book?" she asks, a plan forming in her mind.

"I can ask."

"Don't ask, _find._ Then bring it to me in the throne room, along with the man himself. At once, do you understand? Take a pair of guardsman, and not a word to Arthur."

* * *

_She's been a fool, playing by the rules they've set down, trusting Arthur and his knights to honour her, fully, as an equal heir to the throne. Oh, she's no doubt they mean well, but they've no idea about the sacrifices she's made to make this all possible. To keep them all safe, these best parts of her family, whether they be blood kin or those she's chosen to champion as her own. And as for Lancelot… They've all been fools where he is concerned, let him in far too deep, and now she's going to expose him. ___

* * *

She takes her time, makes him wait kneeling on the floor while she studies the little green book. He says nothing, hasn't made a sound since his murmured, "My lady," when she'd greeted him with a slap to the face. But he watches her, and she sees …

Oh, she sees everything now.

"My, my." She holds her place with a finger as she looks up, arching an eyebrow. "Lancelot du Lac, what a curious life you've led. All that wandering. All that suffering and hard work, all your vows undone by…it _is_ love, isn't it? Not mere desire?"

He drops his gaze at that, shoulders sagging.

"Oh, come now, don't deny it. Perhaps at first you were simply struck by her beauty, but in time…" She glances down at the page before her then, with a sigh, closes the book and rises from her throne. She descends the dais and stops just before him, one foot placed between his spread thighs. "We are the same sort of fool, you and I. I can hardly fault you for it. However—" She crouches down so they're at eye level and places her fingertips on his reddened cheek. "—this debt to my sister, for your rescue from the slavers. It is paid?"

Lancelot swallows, nods. "Yes, my lady, some weeks back, but I swear, I have not been her creature for months now. I've fed her useless details, half-truths, outright lies when I could."

Morgana cocks her head and slides her fingers down to grasp his chin. This close she can smell his sweat, the bitter herbs on his breath, the musk of his hair. "It wasn't just information though. She sent you to seduce Gwen, steal her away from me."

He shakes his head. "No, my lady, I—" 

She digs her nails in. "Do not lie to me!" 

"Arthur," he croaks out, eyes wide. 

"What?" 

"Arthur," he repeats once she's released him. "She sent me to seduce _Arthur_ , turn him against you. I think she thought you might join with her, were you driven away from your rightful place in Camelot."

"But that's absurd." She stands, yanking Lancelot to his feet more for balance than anything else, a laugh tickling the back of her throat. "Arthur would never…and _you,_ do you even wish to bed your own sex?"

"No," Lancelot confirms, blushing. "I love Arthur with all my heart, would gladly die for him, but—"

"Your loins are otherwise inclined?" She can't help herself from laughing then. The look on his face is priceless, as is the way he goes even redder when she lets her gaze drift downward.

The throne room door creaks open. "My lady, is everything all right? I thought I heard—"

"On your knees," Morgana hisses, shoving Lancelot back down. "And play along if you know what's good for you."

Leon pokes his head in. "Did you cry out?"

"Indeed I did, Sir Leon, but only in mirth. Some of Lancelot's verse is so very far beyond dreadful it trespasses on the ridiculous."

"I see," Leon replies after a moment's pause, clearly at a loss as to how he's meant to respond.

"Come," she says, schooling her face. She waves him in and indicates that he should help Lancelot to his feet. "You were right. The only crimes he's guilty of are those against the bardic arts, and for that the only fit punishment is tutelage. And a great deal of practice."

"My lady?" Lancelot murmurs, eyes wary. 

She clears her throat and looks past him, addressing Leon. "Starting tonight. It pains me to think of the horrors he's already inflicted on unwitting ears. See that he's brought directly to my chambers after supper. Make sure he bathes beforehand, though. He stinks."

Clutching Lancelot's diary to her bosom, she lifts her chin and walks past. She makes it the whole length of the room and nearly out into the corridor before she loses her composure. But guardsman are not paid to have opinions, so if they find it odd that their queen is smirking like a pickpocket on market day, they wisely keep it to themselves.

* * *

_She sees how she might save him, and in doing so save her own future. She sees how she might save herself, perhaps, from the jealousy that burns inside her, how she might give Gwen, not just her heart's desire, but her body's as well._

* * *

Gwen is not yet returned when Lancelot arrives. It would be awkward save for the fact that Morgana _knows_ , now, has, as Arthur had said, learned "what's in his heart".

She thanks Leon, keeping her eyes on her work. Once he is gone, she spares Lancelot a single glance. "Strip," she says. "Then wait on the bed."

She notes the moment he recognises the fertility charm fastened to the headboard—a brief hesitation, head swinging towards her—but he checks himself, arranges himself on his back with his hands loosely cupped over his genitals.

She snorts. "I'll allow it for now, but I expect better when she arrives."

He lifts his hands, spreading his arms and legs, and stares at her with something burning in his eyes. 

"Yes?"

"Tie me down, my lady. Please. Use me as you see fit."

"Oh I shall," she assures him, then goes back to the documents before her. It will take some tricky wording, but she believes it will hold up to even the most literal of interpretations of the new Albion Accords. If pressed, she will claim that it happened through "natural magic".

* * *

_She sees how this might be more—more than lust or punishment or the easiest means to an end. For every page in the diary filled with deeds Lancelot feels he must atone for, there is another blooming with tenderness, ache, desire uncoupled from any realistic hope of achieving its objects. There's a purity, an unfiltered honesty to it that she admires._

* * *

They are a sight to behold, skin sheened with sweat and faces helpless with pleasure. Morgana keeps her eyes on Gwen for the most part, finding that she does not mind so much if she casts Lancelot as a mere plaything and lets herself simply enjoy the sight of her beloved satisfying herself with abandon.

No matter the knowledge that Lancelot desires her as well—that he'd been torturing himself for months with inappropriate thoughts about the pair of them—she intends only to watch. Content in her chair by the bed, one hand tucked between her thighs as Gwen rides his face to a second orgasm.

Then Gwen abruptly shimmies back, panting, and takes hold of Lancelot's cock. It's swollen stiff, red crown bulging from the foreskin in a manner that looks painful. It's had no relief, no attention since that first teasing lick Gwen had given it, and frankly Morgana could care less except that Gwen looks so thoroughly delighted with it. She can't help but smile back when Gwen looks over. Gwen's smile widens. She positions herself and works him in deep with a pleased hum, never once taking her eyes off Morgana.

"Come, my love," she pleads, lifting her hips then sinking down, as if she were posting a vigorous trot. "Join us. His face is free. Surely a man's tongue cannot be that different, and if you face me…" 

Morgana hesitates only a moment before standing, shedding her wrap, and crawling onto the bed.

* * *

_She sees how they might do this now, the three of them._

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Elveatas, I loved your tense, sexy tale of Lancelot tangling with a clever, badasss (yet tenderhearted, when it comes to Gwen) Morgana and her gang. In your notes you invited anyone who liked to join you onboard this, your new second-favourite OT3 ship, and I hope it's clear by now that you convinced me - though until reveals I suppose I shall be a stowaway ;-) Thanks again for your stories, and best wishes on all future adventures, written or otherwise!


End file.
